Last saturday, I had an unintentional hypocrite day. In the morning, I finally made it out the Anarchist Book Fair, which I have been meaning to check out ever since I moved to this city. I went with my seven year old (who had one of those days where she seemed ducktaped to my hip) and a friend. I found a good book, a good birthday present for my absentee husband and was introduced to some of the independent presses right here in Montreal.
In the afternoon, I then did something completely out of character and went to Old Navy while I was waiting for my youngest to get out of ballet. And I actually bought stuff. Not for me of course, but for the kids. Because my mommy brain took over and all I could see was TWO FOR TEN! TWO FOR TEN!
So I bought them each a t-shirt and a pair of shorts ( which by the way, I had to mention the sale price to the fake chirpy girl behind the counter who was wearing one of those unforgivably easy to make sarcastic commments about name tag with : KAREN s’amuse depuis 2 ans!- which is completely sick and twisted. Who but an evil corporate empire would make you wear a name tag like that?)
Despite the signs, I still ended up purchasing these shorts and t-shirts for my daughters. I then went to pick up said youngster from ballet and went home. With her. Of course.
At home, they both insisted on putting on these new clothes right away. Which they did and all was lovely. Until. Until I saw my youngest daughter wipe her greasy, rib eating hands all over the new khaki shorts. And really rubbing them in too- as if she wanted to transfer all the oil from her hands into the shorts. I got mad, lectured about how our clothes are NOT a suitable substitute for a napkin and left it at that. Well. The next day we went canoeing. And on this idyllic canoe trip, little one has to pee. Where does she do it? In the outhouse? Of course not. In the woods? Nope. In the Old Navy Khakis? Yep. At this point, I began to think she was telling me something. A subtle message along the lines of, “Mama- I kaka in your khakis.”
Now those shorts have been through the wash after having rib grease, urine, chocolate ice cream and poutine sauce massaged into them by my little anarchist. And they look way better than the people at Old Navy could ever have imagined.
She knew. I will listen next time, oh young and wise one.
